“That is right. You have an unequalled power of explosion in your thumb-joint—I heard it through three oaken doors the last time you were at all in a passion; and now it will go through a wall at least. Nature has granted you this power to exhibit your contempt of wrong.”
“Roland, I have no power at all. I do not pretend to be clever at words; and I know that you laugh at my preaching. I am but a peg in a hole, I know, compared with all your learning; though my churchwarden, Gates, won’t hear of it. What did he say last Sunday?”
“Something very good, of course. Help yourself, Struan, and out with it.”
“Well, it was nothing very wonderful. And as he holds under you, Sir Roland——”
“I will not turn him out, for even the most brilliant flash of his bramble-hook.”
“You never turn anybody out. I wish to goodness you would sometimes. You don’t care about your rents. But I do care about my tithes.”
“This is deeply disappointing, after the wit you were laden with. What was the epigram of Churchwarden Gates?”
“Never you mind. That will keep—like some of your own mysteries. You want to know everything and tell nothing, as the old fox did in the fable.”
“It is an ancient aphorism,” Sir Roland answered, gently, “that knowledge is tenfold better than speech. Let us endeavour to know things, Struan, and to satisfy ourselves with knowledge.”